


Hands, Be Still

by an_apple_for_him



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7429545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_apple_for_him/pseuds/an_apple_for_him
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, Sherlock is given time to think, and reflect. Reflect upon the many things in his life, but mainly, his key issue. James Moriarty. Somehow, he can't convince himself that this psychopath is truly dead. Perhaps the self diagnosed "high-functioning sociopath" isn't quite as sociopathic as he always believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ever since Reichenbach, Sherlock’s head was very occupied.

He sat perched in Mycroft’s study. He was curled into the office chair like a child, knees against his chest. The room had long since been extinguished of light other than one candle on the desk. Sherlock was in deep thought. He chewed the skin around his nail pensively. He was dead to the world. He was dead to John and Lestrade, to Anderson, to Donovan, to Mrs. Hudson. He of course had seen them all visit his gravestone, acknowledging his passing. Heard John's plea. He had to go after that. Didn't want to risk being heard crying. He was dead, like Jim Moriarty, he was a thing of the past. 

Moriarty was dead, he had to be, didn’t he? Up on the roof. Sherlock kept replaying the scene. 

They had been stood together, talking, they were only inches apart. Sherlock had found it odd, Moriarty’s closeness. Really they had remained close together throughout the entire encounter, the majority of it at least. Circling, observing, speaking.

The breath from Jim’s words would brush past his ears, his neck. They surrounded him, encompassed him, circled like a predator. Just like James, just like he had done up on the roof. 

They remained so close. How had he ignored the facts he already knew like that? James was left handed, and offered out his right to shake. _He should have noticed this this_. Used the gesture to distract from his intent, so he could baffle Sherlock and draw the gun. _Sherlock should have noticed_.

Now they were both dead to the world.

The door opened steadily, to reveal Mycroft stood with two glasses. “Might I offer you a drink, brother mine.” Mycroft murmured, glancing around his study. His tone was soft, one of the only times he had really shown care to Sherlock since they were both rather young. The brightness of the room behind him made him look like little more than a silhouette of a man. 

Sherlock gave no reply, only looking bitterly at the light seeping in before turning back to look into empty space. Mycroft continued inside, shutting the door behind him and making his way towards the candlelight, there he placed the two glasses on the table. “You shouldn’t read in this light Sherlock, it’s bad for your eyes.” He stated matter-of-factly, taking a seat in front of Sherlock and relaxing back with one of the glasses. 

“I wasn’t reading Mycroft.” Sherlock answered, unmoving from his position. 

“Then what could it be that you’ve been puzzling over all this time?” Mycroft’s inquiries were genuine, though unappreciated by Sherlock.

“Hardly anything that’d interest you.” Sherlock replied, tone flat. 

“Hardly a fair assumption. We are only the two of us here Sherlock, it is alright to speak your mind. Now that you’re dead and have nothing better to do, what could possibly be going on inside your head?” Mycroft insisted. 

Sherlock shifted his glance up towards his brother, as if debating his situation. He tapped his fingers on his knee silently, tapping out the binary code Moriarty had shown him. Imagining his eyes, his face, every single detail as vividly as possible, just replaying it all, frame by frame, dissecting it. And at one point, he got stuck, James was smiling, smiling up at him with that big stupid grin. _You’re me_. “Really Mycroft, it’s old news, nothing that I imagine could interest you.”

“The fall again, Sherlock?” Mycroft lowered his voice, not pausing to speak after Sherlock was done. “What is it about the fall that you keep going back to, brother mine? Is there something you aren’t telling me?” He sounded like a concerned mother, just trying to look out for her son, who was hiding everything. 

The younger Holmes brother glanced away. He tried again to remember what he was thinking off. His brain just kept going to Moriarty, holding his hand, the intimacy in the moments up on the roof, the way James would tap shoulders occasionally as he made his predatory circles. What was it, was Moriarty testing him, teasing him, tempting him? He swallowed hard, running his tongue over his lips. His mouth had grown wet, more so than it should be. “Nothing I wish discuss now, brother.” He almost had to wrestle with the words. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of whatever it was he had brought in. Sherlock reached for the other glass, sniffing it tentatively. Scotch, of course it was. He placed the glass back on the desk. There was a long silence, which Sherlock was initially thankful for. That was, until his mind kicked back up, overanalyzing everything from up on the roof. He adjusted his seating position, lowering her feet to the ground. “Brother mine, did they ever find Moriarty’s body?” Sherlock asked, taking the glass once again and taking a drink. 

“Not that I can recall hearing.” Mycroft answered, curiosity growing. “Why is it that you ask?”

“If his body was never found could it be, by some crazy circumstance, that he never actually died?” Sherlock declared, voice growing increasingly excited. Mycroft’s curiosity seemed to drop into pity. “What if he only pretended to shoot himself, so that I couldn’t call off the snipers using him. So that I couldn’t convince him to-.”

“Sherlock, James Moriarty is most certainly dead.” Mycroft’s tone was harsh when he spoke, eyes cold as he looked upon his brother. “I need to find you something to do, this being dead business is doing you absolutely no good.”

With that Mycroft rose to his feet, starting to leave the room. “What would make you want him to still be alive in any case. The man is a killer and a criminal, wouldn’t you rather him to be dead?” 

“He said I was his distraction-.” Sherlock began to rise to his feet as well. 

“Don’t tell me you’re getting feelings for a criminal Sherlock, what did I always tell you?” Mycroft quickly turned on his heel, tone playful but expression far from.

“Caring is not an advantage.” Sherlock mumbled, taking the glass from the table for the last time and draining it of its contents. "I _don't_ care." He felt the familiar burn as it spilled down, causing him to cough slightly as the dense gas got stuck in his throat.

Mycroft nodded in approval. “Give me a couple days, brother mine, and I’ll have you out of Europe, perhaps that’ll give you more to think about other than the fall. I swear, half of this is your fear of heights coming back to bite you. Ever since you jumped off that roof trying to imitate Mary Poppins with my umbrella.” Mycroft teased, motioning for Sherlock to exit his study. “For now, just try and entertain yourself.”

Sherlock nodded, continuing into the guest bedroom and undressing. He closed his eyes. Right now, he wanted to be buried in his mind palace. Maybe a little maintenance would keep him from over analyzing the fall.


	2. Chapter 2

He shut his eyes, allowing himself to slip entirely into his mind palace. He walked the halls quietly, finding solace in his old cases and the memories he had of those he cared about. Redbeard, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even Anderson popped up from time to time. When he caught sight of Anderson, he found himself amused. It seemed odd that someone quite as annoying as he would have a place reserved for him in the palace, but Sherlock didn’t feel like removing him from there. 

He continued through, cleaning out what he no longer needed, making space for more things. He went through each corridor, each door, smiling at some of the memories and frowning at others. He tried to think of other things, keep himself distracted from the fall. The Hollow Client, the Field Bazaar. All very old cases he had either read up on or that he had been given, but all of them solved. He had even made a small hallway with an opening to showcase each case he had solved, should he need to review any of the details in future. All shut doors he could open at any moment. His pace down the hallway slowed as he pulled up to a door left ajar. Upon the face of the door, the name "The Reichenbach Return" embezzled upon it. John could have come up with a better name. He reached for the handle, pulling it shut for the meantime. It was old news. He would bother with it later. So long as he kept that door shut, Moriarty was dead to him, and that was all he knew and recognized.

He knew Moriarty was most of the reason he was so fixed on it, but the other reason was his fear. 

Sherlock had always been afraid of heights, falling from them more specifically. Mainly this fear surfaced from when he was younger, he had quite a few tumbles from high up places, Mycroft believed his fear to stem from the Mary Poppins incident, but the one that caused him to fear heights was one where he fell off of a bride crossing a river. 

He moved this part of his mind palace, watching a younger version of he and Mycroft chatting as they crossed a small wooden bridge. Sherlock smiled at how carefree he was as a child, and almost found himself laughing at the very little differences between Mycroft now and the Mycroft he had known, only a receding hairline and a few extra pounds were immediately noticeable. He remembered how he always used to be jealous of how Mycroft’s hair stayed ginger, since his hair slowly was getting darker.

He continued to watch, a small smile on his face, up until he saw the moment his child self lost his balance. Mycroft hadn’t immediately noticed, and Sherlock swayed dangerously on the edge of the bridge. Sherlock could feel his chest growing tight as fear began to grip at him. The bridge was quite high above the rushing currents, and the water didn’t look deep enough to properly cushion the fall. He’d get hurt if he fell in, he had gotten hurt. 

Sherlock caught himself reaching forward as if trying to help his younger self, though he didn’t step forward. He watched Mycroft’s eyes widen and his hand start to stretch out as the child began leaning too far over the edge to recover. Sherlock’s chest felt agonizing, and he crouched down to try and lessen the pain of his fear. He looked sharply back up as Mycroft called his name, only to hear an abrupt splash. Then it all sounded like water, he couldn’t hear Mycroft anymore, just the rushing of the current. Mycroft stuck his umbrella in, trying to hook onto an article of the child’s clothing, or to the child itself.

Sherlock watched in pain, squinting, it felt like water was filling his eyes again, restricting his breathing. He scrambled back to the door, fear taking over. He didn’t let the rest of the memory reach him, didn’t wait till the point where he broke his arm. He turned and escaped his own memory, slamming the door behind him. It took him several moments to regain his composure, and he continued to hear his name, in Mycroft’s voice initially, but it eventually melted into something much more sinister. 

Irish accent whispered his name, sang it, choked it. He left down one of the halls and opened another door, only to be greeted by darkness, and he closed his eyes firmly before letting them open again. 

When they did open, he was in a room with no light other than the faint moonlight seeping through the window. He gasped as though he hadn’t taken a breath in hours, looking around wildly before his eyes settled on a figure sat at the bottom of the bed. He pushed himself to a seated position, keeping his eyes on the figure.  
He swallowed hard, taking several breaths. He analyzed all the possibilities. “Mycroft?” He asked breathlessly, clueless as to who it could be in the dim light.

“Not quite, try again.” The figure replied, singsong Irish accent telling of who it truly was. 

Sherlock felt his breath catch, and he cleared his throat, bringing a hand up to rub his face and eyes. His throat felt tight, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see a smile on the other man’s face. 

“Moriarty?” The figure silenced him with a gesture. Moriarty rose to his feet, glancing around. 

“Moriarty! But aren't you supposed to be _dead_?” He chuckled, walking closer to Sherlock and watching the detective’s eyes as they were glued to him. “You’re right, I am dead, aren’t I? But we both know you don’t really want that.” Moriarty spoke casually, picking up and observing some of the pictures and trinkets in the bedroom. Sherlock frowned, sitting up further only to then realize just how expose he was. He quickly grabbed the sheets, pulling them further around him and scanning the room for his trousers. “Do you?” 

Sherlock didn’t say a word, still looking around for his clothing. He heard tutting from his other side, followed by a hand on the side of his face, turning it the other way. He hesitantly moved with it, turning to face Moriarty. “How are you alive?” He hissed, keeping his voice down in case he was just in his mind palace. He would seem crazy. 

Moriarty sighed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “Well that’s a boring question. Ask me something exciting instead.” Moriarty replied, letting it become a spectacle rather than a conversation. Sherlock felt Moriarty’s hand still cradling the side of his head. It wasn’t cold, it was surprisingly warm, and his breath tickled Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock closed his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath and hearing Moriarty chuckle softly under his breath. He felt the hand slip slightly down, opening his eyes as it settled around his neck. Moriarty’s gaze moved to look where his hand rested. “Why have you come here?” Sherlock asked, turning so that he was facing Moriarty. The fact that he was only half dressed seemed to have been brushed off. 

“Why would I come here? What do you want from me?” Moriarty purred, eyes straying further. “What do you want from me, right now? Where do you want me? How do you want me?” He stopped his gaze from slipping, meeting Sherlock’s conflicted expression. “What do you want?” Moriarty whispered.

“Let go of my neck.” Sherlock hissed in reply, not making any movement, just glaring up at Moriarty. His voice seemed choked, as if he was struggling with the statement.  
The criminal smirked as he complied, throwing himself down on the bed beside Sherlock, letting his head fall back. “And then?” 

Sherlock tried desperately to figure himself out before acting, before speaking. Though it seemed he had taken too long, as in the next moment, Moriarty was on his knees behind Sherlock, one hand gently running down Sherlock’s side and the other swinging around so that Sherlock could be choked out or restrained at moment’s notice. Sherlock felt his breath rush out, leaning forward in surprise and feeling an odd sensation run up his spine. “Tell me, what next? What do you want from me?”

The detective swallowed hard, turning in his bed and grabbing Moriarty by the lapels, pushing him back down against the mattress and holding him there. Moriarty seemed pleasantly surprised, a distant grin on his face as he looked up at Sherlock. He ran his tongue over his lips, letting his arms lie flat by his sides. “How are you alive?” Sherlock asked once again, louder, and Moriarty raised his eyebrows quizzically. 

“So boring.” Moriarty groaned, bringing his hands up to sit on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock tensed up, glancing back to where Moriarty’s hands had spread along his bare waist and hips. “What do you really want?” He watched Sherlock carefully as the conflicted look on his face grew, obviously amused. 

Sherlock didn’t know what to think. Why was Moriarty being so touchy? Why was he letting Moriarty be this way? They were enemies, they tried to kill each other. Why was this reunion so passive, so different than it had ever been? Why was Moriarty staying so close? Why was he slightly enjoying this? He closed his eyes tightly, trying to clear his mind. It seemed so busy, he couldn’t think anything through. He sat up on his knees, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his hands and gripping his hair. Everything just seemed so thick.  
It was like everything was clouded by a thick layer of… something.

He wanted to tell himself it was wrong; by all stances of logic it was wrong. He felt Moriarty move beneath him, sitting as well and closing his eyes, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock could feel him smiling, laughing slightly. His breaths were jagged. He didn’t understand how Moriarty was doing this, inside his own head even. “You like this, don’t you? Tsk tsk Sherlock.” Moriarty scolded.

. Sherlock felt himself grow dizzy, uncertain of how to feel or what to think. He looked away from Moriarty momentarily, bringing his breathing back to normal. He could feel Moriarty pulling away, moving away, getting off the bed. As soon as there was no longer a force holding him up, he fell forward, as if paralyzed. 

Moriarty smirked devilishly at Sherlock, adjusting his suit so that it had no creases and chuckling softly to himself. “You’ll never be rid of me Sherlock. I’ll always be there, waiting for you. In the back of your mind...” Moriarty purred walking to the door and pausing before the entrance. He ran his tongue over his lips, looking around the room one last time, eyes settling on Sherlock. “Did you miss me?” Though the statement was meant to be teasing, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice a hint of something else. Hopefulness? Remorse? Misery?

Sherlock felt his world begin to spin, in equal parts dread and uncertainty. He closed his eyes, falling onto his side, and promptly falling asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke up with a start, breath catching and an inhuman noise escaping him. “Mycroft?” He called weakly, quickly looking around and squinting at the sudden light. He tried to shield it with his arm, checking himself over and catching sight of a slightly bruised area just above his hip. The blood drained from his face, and he yelled once again, this time louder. “Mycroft!” 

Not too soon after, a rather bleary eyed Mycroft burst through the door, still dressed in his night clothes and squinting in disapproval at being awoken. “What in heavens name is it Sherlock?” He exclaimed, unimpressed. Sherlock was looking intently at the bruise, swallowing hard and replaying everything that had happened in his head. He could physically feel how pale he was. “What have you done?” Mycroft voice was calmer this time around.

Sherlock struggled to answer, getting to his feet and taking the sheets with him. Mycroft stopped him before he could go much further, placing two hands on his shoulders and raising his eyebrows questioningly. Sherlock took several deep breaths, looking into Mycroft's eyes like a child hurriedly trying to find solace deep in the heart of another. Mycroft's confusion soon became a frown, recognizing the fear in Sherlock's eyes and tightening his grip slightly. "What have you done?" He whispered again, less for himself and more to try and comfort his little brother.

Sherlock would have normally fought against this compassion shown by the British government, though now he welcomed it graciously, feeling more than a little unsteady. He struggled not to physically shake. Was Moriarty really in the room with him? But Moriarty was dead. He couldn’t have been. There was no proof. A mind palace didn't work like that though, did it? Questions raced through his mind like bullets, like a gunshot through the head. He hurt, he wanted silence again. He brought both hands up to clutch at his head. “I need to leave England.” He finally said, receiving a confused frown from his brother.

“You what?”

“You heard me Mycroft. I have to leave, as soon as possible. Get me the soonest flight to somewhere far away, give me fake information, a mission, something out of England.” Sherlock demanded, almost sounding frenzied. Mycroft let his hands slip, confusion gradually returning. He looked around the room for any sign of something that could have caused Sherlock such sudden fear. Sherlock seemed to be struggling to stay on his own two feet.

“What sparked this Sherlock? Is everything alright?” He asked, voice gentle and slightly wavering. He didn't know, didn't understand. He _always_ understood. Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eye, breaths deep and laboured.

“Last night, an - oh what shall we call him - _old friend_ stopped by to pay me a visit, and the outcome was less than splendid. Do you require a further explanation?” Sherlock demanded, risking a glance to Mycroft as He felt his legs shaking once again. He made his way back to the edge of the bed, sitting down and looking to the floor.

His brother seemed concerned, frozen to the spot he had entered. "I’ll sort it out for you as quickly as I can. I will require an explanation in the fullness of time though.” Mycroft answered, breaking from his stupor and debating where to look, what to say, how to act. He made to exit the room, checking over his shoulder once before he left. 

Mycroft went back into his study, leaving Sherlock alone to think over the night before, leaving Sherlock to curl up on the bed as he clutched his head painfully. He frowned in his own confusion, staring blankly at the wall. It was bare, beige, dark wooden trim. He tried to run over Moriarty’s words once again. 

_Dead?_ It was a scoffing tone, as if the mere concept was poppycock.

 _But we both know you don’t really want that._ Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted at this point, did he want James dead? Did he want him alive? He really wasn’t sure, but perhaps his actions were more telling.

 _Where do you want me?_

_How do you want me?_ Was Moriarty trying to suggest something?

 _Tsk tsk Sherlock._ Petty scolding, like a child. 

_You’ll be putty in my hands._ It was at this point the words started getting a bit jumbled, trying to find a meaning in what he had been told. You like this, don’t you? No, he wasn’t sure he did, but then again, he really hadn’t wanted it to stop. The shudders up his spine, the quivering uncertainty. _Tsk tsk Sherlock_. The scolding, the sensation of being lesser while knowing he was in the company of an equal. The more he thought, the more it began to feel like the words were being spoken to him. He felt the words coming closer and closer, until they drew to a halt, right beside his ear. 

_Did you miss me?_

The words were hot, whispered, dripping by his ear. His breath caught and he found himself speaking without realizing it. “Yes.” He answered quietly, sighing in pleasure at the sound of the voice beside him. It was at that point that he choked on his own saliva, painfully wrenching him back into reality and causing him a significant amount of panic. It was all in his head. It had to be. There was no possible way.

It took several hours for Mycroft to sort everything out, but once he had, the two had more or less regained their composure. “Here are all your forms, you’ll be travelling to Paris initially to help solve a case, under the name of Pierre Goudeut. Murders, I think you’ll find it enjoyable, just try not to get too excited.” He grinned, handing Sherlock the papers so that he could look them over. “Once you’ve cleared that case, you’ll be sent to Serbia to start investigation of an underground terrorist ring which has been passing mediocre threats to London. Nothing we find too serious, just annoyance we want dealt with. Infiltrate it, get information, and then make a decision to either shut it down yourself if it’s safe, or send me a letter. Feel free to take your time, I’ll alert you if a greater threat has arisen.”

“You can buy clothes in Paris, as well as all your contact information, I’ve supplied you with 10,000€ to tide you over up until you can be self sufficient as well as booked you into several different hotels in Paris over the course of three months, to ensure you don’t overstay your welcome. Should you need me, you know how to contact me, but do try and refrain unless it is really an emergency.”

Sherlock reviewed all the information, approving to it all. “Still my caring older brother, I see.” Sherlock teased, putting the papers down on the bed and starting to pack a bag. Mycroft chuckled to himself. 

“Still my reckless younger brother, I see.” Mycroft answered, helping Sherlock gather the things he’d need and giving a detailed description of the mission assignment. Once everything was packed up, Mycroft made sure Sherlock caught the first flight into Paris. Still, the sight of Sherlock so distraught over his own thoughts nagged at the back of his mind. He began to wonder if sending him off like this was really the smartest course of action. Sherlock on the other hand, had returned to the room, ensuring it was deadlocked so that he would not trouble himself with it again. _Moriarty was dead_ , he would allow no other information to reach him while he sat patiently for hours, drilling it into his brain so thoroughly that he no longer found the need to remind himself. _Moriarty is dead, that was just a dream_.


	4. Chapter 4

The case in Paris took Sherlock just under five weeks, meaning he still had eight weeks booked in Paris. He decided to spend another couple weeks before contacting Mycroft to help book his flight. He took in the sights, the quiet alleys, the many tourist attractions. Mainly he observed the people, deduced them, moved onto the next person. He picked up the language rather quickly, having learnt it before when he was very young. The people were interesting, the food was tasty, the sights were beautiful, yet for some reason none of this could tear his attention from one person. 

He cursed silently under his breath as he sat in the café underneath his hotel room. James Moriarty. Not even Paris and all its grandeur could distract Sherlock from that man. His mind kept wandering back to the last time he had seen him, or thought to have seen him. Wandering back to the two of them in the guest bedroom at Mycroft’s house, Sherlock himself half naked, the intimacy of their meeting. He sighed gently, looking across from him. He had spent the past few weeks convincing himself it hadn’t been real.

Sat facing him was a woman with very straight, dark hair. Her deep blue eyes seemed confused. Admittedly, he was confused initially, then a spur of realization had swept over him. “Sorry, I got distracted, say that again?” It had taken him a moment to remember that he had invited this woman out for evening coffee after meeting her on the bus. She seemed interesting, and Sherlock felt like trying to be what was considered “ordinary”. After all, he had nothing else to lose now. He might as well try. 

She adjusted her seating position slightly, glancing around at the other people gathered around talking. “I was saying how I find it unusual how the rates of murder are growing all of a sudden. It’s quite intimidating to be honest.” She stated shyly, shuffling her chair closer and seeing Sherlock nod in agreement. 

“Shouldn’t be an issue much longer, I dropped the solution to the cases in with the resident Detective Inspector, he should be getting them any moment now and after that they should know precisely how to stop the,” he began to trail off, seeing a look of mingled shock and confusion on the girl’s face, “well… there’s no need for you to fear, I’m sure the criminal will be caught and brought to justice.” He was slightly embarrassed by how he didn’t catch himself before spilling out that sort of information. She frowned in an almost distraught confusion. 

A man made his way over with two beverages, smiling as he placed one in front of the woman and then turning to Sherlock. “And I believe _I.O.U._ a coffee, sir?” The man teased, and Sherlock stiffened up entirely.

The man was wearing a pair of thick framed glasses surrounding deep brown eyes, hair sticking out messily from under a brown woven flat cap. His olive green shirt was paired with black jeans and large boots, a black scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. The man removed his glasses to clean them on his shirt. “Can I get you anything to go with that? Sugar, cream?” Sherlock abruptly got to his feet, accidentally knocking the table, not noticing through his rushed breathing. It was impossible, he had told himself a thousand times. This was just some man who resembled Moriarty, it couldn't truly be-.

The man reached for the cups, grabbing hold of both. “Careful. Something could’ve fallen-.” Sherlock heard nothing but his own thoughts screaming at him. Moriarty. It could be no one but Moriarty, but Moriarty was dead.

“I have to go, I’m terribly sorry Jean, I just remembered I have a-,” he had to think for a moment, mouth dry from fear, “an appointment, with my doctor, regarding my…AIDS.” He stammered, starting to make his way out of the café and only just hearing the woman yelling after him through the pulsing of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He quickly began to wander down the street for a bit, checking over his shoulder occasionally to see if he was being tailed. The first three times, there was no one. The fourth, he thought he was, but by the fifth time looking back they had turned in a different direction. He continued in this winding fashion until he eventually found his way back to the hotel. He checked around one last time before entering his room, immediately going into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him, running the tap and undoing the top few buttons on his shirt in order to breathe easier. He wasn't used to this sort of panicked state. 

His hands were cupped in the basin, gathering water he then used to splash himself in the face with. He gasped for air, letting the water drip off of his face and wiping his eyes. He reached for a towel, dabbing his face dry and looking at himself in the mirror for a long while. He used the time he had to ease his breathing, trying madly to piece together what the hell he had seen at the café. 

A wide range of feelings swept over him, none of which he was accustomed to, and once he had managed to force them all to subside into his usual composed self. He took one last deep breath before walking out into his room, figuring he was just overworking his brain, straining himself by forcing himself to communicate and take things simple. It was odd, such simple interaction could be so wearing on one's sanity. 

He wandered over to his suitcase, kneeling beside it and sorting through some of his things. It was then he heard a slight shuffle, only he didn’t turn to look, he simply stopped what he was doing. “Lovely night out, isn’t it?” The Irishman purred. Sherlock closed his eyes gently, working to keep his breathing steady. “Must say, the slight beard is an interesting choice.”

Footsteps began, growing closer very quickly, only to stop only inches behind Sherlock. The detective clenched his fists, wanting to stand and face and face Moriarty, but only managing to fall off to the side, sitting down and taking shallow breaths. James looked at Sherlock for several seconds before glancing away, walking up to the window and pushing it open so that the wind was blowing into the room. He gazed out into the distant sky, resting his crossed forearms on the windowsill, not saying another word, waiting.

Sherlock was tentative as he pushed himself back to his feet. Neither of them said anything, Sherlock wanted to keep his distance. He observed Moriarty in silence, just watching the infamous criminal. It was a long period of silence, in which Sherlock took the time to gather as much information as he could. It all seemed clouded. Everything shook from his fingers to his toes. He felt like screaming, yelling loudly over and over again to try convince himself of a point. _Moriarty is dead_.

Moriarty’s hair was messy, unkempt, unusual for the normally pristine spider. His clothing was light, a white linen shirt only just tucked into the waist of his trousers, jeans instead of dress pants. “You don’t have to be so afraid around me. I can’t do anything to you. I’m dead, remember?” Moriarty sighed softly, leaning heavier on the window and bringing his head to rest on his arms. Sherlock didn't understand how he could remember Moriarty like this. He couldn't remember ever seeing Moriarty like this.

This was uncharacteristic of Moriarty, and Sherlock found himself cautiously drawn closer. He feared this was just an act, a false vulnerability. That Moriarty would turn into his old psychotic self again at the blink of an eye. Would bite, would scratch, would push Sherlock back again and this time he wouldn't have anyone to offer him any form of comfort.

He inched ever closer, and this time it was Moriarty who didn’t move. “Why do you keep coming back, Moriarty?” He asked, trying to see the expression on Moriarty’s face. The older man angled his head back to look upon Sherlock. Dark eyes shone brightly, though they had no life to them. 

Moriarty looked tired, exhausted even. Sherlock felt a pain in his chest as Moriarty shifted his gaze back out the window. What could have caused this sudden change in appearance? “Dumb question, I don’t have a choice. I’m just a part of you, why do you want me here?” He paused for several moments, shifting his position on the window only slightly. “And you don’t have to be so formal about it, here. I have a first name; you can use it.” Moriarty replied. It wasn’t the answer Sherlock was looking for, but it was as good as anything. 

He cringed as he looked to Moriarty’s arms, still slowly approaching. They had some scar tissue formed on them from years back, he assumed it was from fighting, since it was all rather messy. Some though, were too neat, and that thought only made Sherlock sick to his stomach. “James…” Sherlock let the foreign concept of calling his enemy by his first name roll off for the very first time. 

James smiled slightly, as though he hadn’t heard anyone say the name in years, and it brought him joy to hear it. He cast his glance back to Sherlock, this time letting it remain there. “Good, you remember.” James chewed his lip softly, gaze fleeting slightly, but enough that he could watch the detective out of his peripheral vision. His voice was sweet and breathy, soft like a cat's purr and hardly any louder.

“James…” Sherlock recited once again, reaching out and resting a tentative hand on the criminal’s shoulder. James turned to look after a moment, careless almost in the endeavor. He didn’t look into Sherlock’s eyes immediately, one arm still leaning heavily on the windowsill. Slowly, his gaze shifted to meet Sherlock’s. "I could kill you in my mind as well you know. Get rid of you for good." He tried his hardest to make his voice cold, confident. He didn't feel as though he really succeeded.

"You might as well. Wouldn't accomplish anything, but hey at least that way you wouldn't keep coming back to me. To this. To us every time you are for lack of things to do." Moriarty returned, eyebrows creased slightly to convey the fact that he didn't quite care what Sherlock did to him. Sherlock seemed torn, looking into Moriarty’s eyes like that. Everything Moriarty had said to him. Yet the one thing that resounded the clearest right now, _did you miss me_?

How was he to process what he was thinking? He was so unsure what to do. He always knew what to do. How could he explain that, yes, he had in fact missed the criminal beyond belief. The boredom of not having him, the constant occupation of his mind distracting him from mundane tasks and only focused on the chocolaty eyes before him. How was he to process all of this and make it so it was enough to be understood by the master criminal stood before him. 

Sherlock ground to a halt. It was like a fuse had burnt out in his magnificent brain. Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t say a word. Didn’t do a thing except breathe. Moriarty had shut Sherlock down from within his own mind, projecting himself into Sherlock’s reality. Sherlock couldn’t comprehend the mere notion itself. He was frightened.

Moriarty smirked slightly, looking the detective up and down. Carefully he removed Sherlock’s hand, playing with it very gently, running his fingers over the palm and face of his hand, lingering against the supple fingers. “Would you like me to show you something Sherlock?” Moriarty whispered, bringing Sherlock’s hand close to his mouth, allowing the air to blow over his fingers. Sherlock continued to look into Moriarty’s eyes, lost in them, utterly paralyzed. 

He only felt the movement of his hand, there was no acknowledging the movement, he just knew he felt something. He didn’t feel capable to respond. He was trying to justify just how bad it was that he had somehow enabled someone so sinister so much control over his mind and self. He wanted to cry, he wanted to curl up like he would when he was child and seek solace in someone. In dead eyes. Could he? He wanted to run through his halls and find Redbeard, find the memories he had with the cherished dog. There was nothing, just James Moriarty, stood before him, right in this moment. He couldn't tell whether or not he wanted it to end. His chest ached as Moriarty's lips brushed against his knuckles.

Moriarty never once broke eye contact, and Sherlock tried to make himself look away. “Yes, you’d very much like that wouldn’t you?” Moriarty murmured to himself, allowing Sherlock’s hand to drop and glancing away. Sherlock suddenly seemed to regain control, tumbling to his knees and hitting the ground much harder than he had intended. Looking up now, he felt powerless. He thought it'd be logical to kick and scream, to fight back, but he didn't want to. "Well take it in Sherlock, you know what you're looking for."

Moriarty began to walk back towards the window, only to be stopped by a single word out of Sherlock's mouth. "Please."

The word sounded as thought they were spoken by a misunderstanding child. Moriarty stopped. "Please, fix it for me, tell me what you're doing to me." Sherlock pleaded. He could almost hear as Moriarty's breath caught in his throat.

Silence fell upon the room. Sherlock brought his hands up to his face rubbing his eyes and feeling slight irritation in them. "Only you can answer that." Moriarty responded, though he did take the time to crouch beside Sherlock and brush a hand along the side of his face. The detective's eyes shut softly. Sherlock shamelessly pushed into the touch, trying to find anything to explain why he felt the way he did and the thought the way he was, just to himself. James' face couldn't be read, his eyes were void of expression, but as soon as his wrist brushed by Sherlock's jawline, Sherlock listened. He felt the pulse of the other, noticing how it had grown to be a fair bit more rapid than normal.

The realization felt like a punch to the gut. _"Did you miss me? Sherlock?"_. The touch began to fade, the voice sounded distant. _No. Too soon. Way too soon._

His eyes shot open and he opened his mouth to speak, but only air came out. He realized that he was alone, alone in his big empty hotel room, and his eyes burnt and his heart raced and he couldn't seem to make any sort of association to any drug. He tried again, to speak, in hopes that he wasn't really alone, in hopes that Moriarty would come back, that they would talk, that they would just be in the same room and interact and... "Yes." He whispered to himself, wanting to fall forwards and launch himself back into his mind place. _Yes._ He did miss Moriarty. More than he cared to admit to himself or anyone else.

he swallowed the lump in his throat, struggling to his feet and lumbering with heavy feet to his bed. Maybe if he just went to sleep, he'd wake up and would stop this ridiculous behavior. _He wasn't meant to care._ He shut his eyes tightly, wishing sleep to come, and locking himself inside a dark room in his mind palace. He wouldn't let himself wander. Not tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking up the next morning wasn’t quite as jarring as the first time around. Instead Sherlock simply wrapped his head around what had happened as he began his exit from deep sleep, and forced understanding upon himself. His breath still caught when he woke, he was still quick to sit up and look around, he was still alarmed beyond belief from what had happened, but rather than yell, he just took several shaking breaths. 

He glanced around the room once more, focusing on the objects around him and deducing facts about each one. An old lamp, the shade was dusty, and it hadto be at least 50 years old. A miracle it still worked. A grandfather clock nestles away in the corner, ticking away. It was a distraction. Then, he fell back, burying his head in a pillow and groaning loudly at his own idiocy. 

Once he had brought himself around, he pushed himself off of the bed, standing on two feet and teetering back and forth. He closed his eyes for a split second, opening them again and hearing the sounds of cars and people outside. Approaching the window, he looked upon many people bustling to get places, spend time with loved ones, living such simple lives with nothing pressing on their minds other than how they plan on getting their daily bread.

Sherlock for once, almost found himself envying their dull lives. 

He retreated back into his room, standing in front of a mirror and trying to make himself look somewhat decent for the day ahead. The beard he had attempted to grow was taking its dear time. He ran his fingers through his hair. 

He missed playing violin. He missed his coat. He missed John. He missed Mrs. Hudson. 

He went to his suitcase, pulling out clean clothes to wear for the day. A jacket, loose and comfortable, and a white t-shirt went hand in hand, a pair of dark trousers to match, and the same shoes he had been wearing since he left London. He had to trust he didn’t quite as terrible as he felt, heading down to the café beneath the hotel and ordering a slice of toast and a cup of tea. 

He sat quietly, working through things in his head, not wanting to delve into his mind palace in such a public area. He listened to the soft music, played with the cutlery, figured this is what ordinary people do with their time. He took several of the small jam containers from the tray, observing each studiously.

The waiter soon returned, placing the cup and plate down on the table. Sherlock smiled as a silent thanks, picking up the knife and layering first butter, then jam on the toast. As he was pushing the last of the jam to the unaffected areas of toast, his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He placed the utensils back on the table, taking a bite of his breakfast before answering. "Salut?"

"Still in Paris, brother mine?" The voice on the other end exclaimed, tone consistently condescending, as was his usual. 

"Why, yes I am. I still have a few more weeks here have I not?" He crunched another bite of toast. 

"That would be correct. Are you enjoying it? Being dead? Must be so boring." Mycroft groaned, clearly trying to influence his younger sibling. 

"Boring? Far from, it's absolutely delightful. You should try it sometime." There was a bite to Sherlock's words. Mycroft chuckled in amusement. 

"Well I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, hopefully all legally? Have you taken time to plan your strategy for the investigation in Serbia?"

"Not quite, I've been occupying myself with other things in fact." Sherlock answered, reaching for the teapot which had been brought with the cup and beginning to fill it, phone pressed to his ear.

"Such as? You've never been one to partake in such mundane activities as sightseeing, what could possibly be keeping you so busy?" 

Sherlock was silent. He placed the teapot back down, taking the phone and switching ears. Mycroft waited patiently for his reply. "I've been occupying myself with my own thoughts Mycroft." Sherlock answered after having switched sides. 

He could almost hear Mycroft's disapproval in the silence before he spoke. "The fall again?" 

"Yes, the fall." Sherlock replied, beginning to stir his tea and bracing himself for one of his brother's infamous "you have better things to do than just wallow in something you don't understand" speeches.

"You know my response to that by now-."

"I could recite it to you by heart, now brother if you wouldn't mind-." 

"Wouldn't mind leaving you to puzzle how a dead man isn't dead when he very clearly is? Why are you so concerned with this Sherlock?" Mycroft was clearly irritated by being cut off, but managed to conceal it well. 

Sherlock on the other hand struggled a fair bit with with concealing his sentiment. "It's just a distraction." He hissed through clenched teeth.

"You should be concentrating on much more pressing matters. I'm shortening your stay in Paris until the end of this week, then you are to leave to Serbia and spend your time working there until such time as you are needed here again, do I make myself clear Sherlock?" 

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes in annoyance and dropping the spoon stroppily on the table. "You really are quite insufferable." He growled, roughly hanging up the phone and looking out the window. He sighed in annoyance, suppose he’d better follow instruction. He couldn’t imagine Mycroft leaving him be now. The only thing to do would be to start planning for Serbia, perhaps looking at the case might help in that. Still using his phone, he checked his emails after weeks of not having done so.

He hadn’t even toyed with the idea that he’d be receiving emails from anyone except Mycroft. Naturally there was one or two spam emails that slipped through the filter, but what most surprised him was the fact that he had received many e-mails from people he knew.

There were a few from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, one from Molly hoping he was enjoying being dead, and lastly, fourteen emails from John watson. Two weeks worth.

He contemplated reading them now. It was likely something his therapist had recommended, a way to ease the pain through one sided contact with the dead. To make the grieving process a bit easier. They probably contained all the details of his days and how he was managing everything. He’d probably gotten a girlfriend at this point. Still, perhaps they were worth skimming over.

He opened the very first, checking the date. Sent a day after Sherlock’s death. _”My dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes.”_ Those words alone were enough to cause his stomach to turn. 

“I hope you’re enjoying this whole _being dead_ thing. I know I certainly am not. My therapist told me to do this, and I told Mrs. Hudson, and she told Greg. So now I suppose we’ll all be sending you emails. If you were alive, you’d really hate this.” 

“Funny saying that, _if you were alive_ , this’ll all just be some sort of ridiculous trick you’ve pulled and fooled all of us, and you’ll be back before we know it and everyone will laugh it off as just one of your mad schemes. I really hope that’s what you’ll do. I won’t laugh, but I hope to god this isn’t all real Sherlock.” 

“You’re a bastard for killing yourself you know that?”

“Lestrade hurried to come check up on Mrs. Hudson and I today. Says his wife caught him smoking so he just figured he’d stop by, but I know that isn’t the case. He did smell quite strongly of smoke though. I’m sure it was just a one time thing, to try and cope with al the stress. Apparently his wife is still causing issues with custody and fidelity.” 

“Mrs. Hudson was as devastated as you’d imagine. If you could imagine, if you were alive… She insisted she was fine for several moments after Lestrade told her, though she had to take a seat and soon began to cry. Lestrade seemed on the brink of it himself, but I imagine he’s seen this all before. Too professional. I hadn’t really cried much until I started writing this email as a matter of fact. Now though, well I couldn’t stop it if I tried.”

“We all miss you, so much Sherlock. I haven’t seen your brother at all, from what I’ve heard he was spending his time in the diogenes club. I’ll pay him a visit today, for you, make sure he’s alright. We all miss you. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Can’t believe I’m writing you civilized fucking emails as if nothing had happened. Something big has happened, and you’re dead and you’ve left me all alone Sherlock. You made me watch as you threw yourself off of a bloody building and you think I can just write you emails to satisfy myself when all I want to do is hear this was a sick joke. And let me tell you Holmes it is a bloody terrible prank if that’s what you were intending.”

“You just left me here all alone. I don’t know what I’ll do now. I don’t know what there is to do. This is worse than coming back from the war. You made me get close, you made me care about you as one of my dearest friends, for god sakes you even drove away all of my girlfriends. Maybe now you’re gone I can hold down a stable relationship with a girl I love because I won’t be driven up the wall by your drug addiction and constant need for attention. Maybe my life will improve because I am no longer stuck with Mr. Big-and-fancy-consulting-detective all the time. Maybe. Maybe.”

“You’ve really fucked up this time Sherlock, you’ve betrayed and ruined your friends and still somehow manage to victimise yourself, just what you’d always wanted when you were alive huh? Goodbye Sherlock Holmes. -John Watson.”

Sherlock couldn’t hide his shock at John’s sudden change in attitude and behaviour. He hadn’t imagined John skipping to anger quite so quickly, but then again, he supposed what he had done was rather anger inducing. Lestrade had taken back up smoking? Mrs. Hudson was devastated by his loss? It all felt like weight being added to his chest. He quickly clicked to the next email. Lestrade this time. 

“Hello Sherlock,” He rose to his feet, making his way out of the cafe and back to his room as he read. “You’ve really quite outdone yourself this time.”

“Can’t say I couldn’t see it coming. I mean, it was quite obvious that you’d want to rectify everything that was said in the papers, I just didn’t think you’d make it so… big. That has always been your style though.”

“You know I had a brother once, great guy, really, but like you he had a bit of a drug issue. I don’t reckon I’ve ever mentioned it to you, I try to keep it on the down low as much as possible. Not that I didn’t love him or anything, I just don’t really like recalling it all.”

“He had a lot of difficulties, trying to overcome his addiction, you know how it is. I just stuck to cigarettes mostly, but after some time he proudly came up to me and declared he was totally clean.”

“I searched his house. He was. I was really proud of him, isn’t an easy thing to do, overcome addiction. We celebrated him breaking free of his addiction at home with mum and dad. Then a week later we found ourselves all dressed in black, stood before his casket. My brother had killed himself through a drug overdose.”

“Maybe that’s why I struggle to believe you’re clean at all. It’s why I highly doubt you were clean when you threw yourself off of the roof. They won’t let into the morgue to check, I can’t even drop off lunch for Molly. She hasn’t left since your body arrived. I take it she’s grieving. We all do it differently.”

“I made sure Mrs. Hudson knew that you were dead. John was there, so he obviously knew but Mrs. Hudson… She reacted as if she were a mother, hearing the news that her son killed himself. First she was in shock, then she told me it couldn’t be true. Sherlock would never do that. Yes he gets bored and the tabloids have been very impolite lately, but it would never drive Sherlock to kill himself. Then she just started crying, and she walked over to your chair and sat down and kept repeating the same thing. _He can’t be dead, he just can’t. What would Mycroft say, what would his parents say?_.”

“I stood by her until John came home. He didn’t say anything upon returning, just went into your room. I decided I’d stick around and look after them for a while. After all my wife wouldn’t be welcoming me home. You were right, she’s still sleeping with the P.E. teacher.”

“Donovan was the one that told me. That you were dead. _Lestrade. It’s Sherlock. You won’t be getting his help on any other cases._ I couldn’t really distinguish what I thought of that. Initially I was confused, and then I was shocked. I honestly couldn’t believe it. I know you did it for a reason though, you never do anything without a reason. I just wish you’d told me what the reason was. I could’ve helped.”

“That’s all I’ve got to say for now. John told me it’d be good to write you emails if I ever feel overwhelmed or overemotional about this whole ordeal. According to his therapist it’s a great way to filter through your emotions and understand the grieving process. Writing to a dead man. Never thought I’d find myself in need of that.”

By the time Sherlock had finished reading, he was in his room once again, and his eyes burned. John and Lestrade both were struggling with Sherlock not being there. Next email, still Lestrade. 

“I’m handling the press. They’re animals. Not even a week after your death and my boss and the entire media network of london is on my back regarding the _false cases_ and _the thousands of dollars worth of government utilities wasted on the Sherlock cases_. My wife hasn’t come back, I don’t think she plans on it. I’m always alone in my own house and the halls seem empty and the lights seem dim and I can’t even seem to step out my front door without being bombarded with questions regarding _how did you feel after finding out you’d been used and betrayed by the fake genius Sherlock Holmes?_ No one is helping me, I’m alone, and I’m distracting them from John well as I can but nicotine patches don’t cut it anymore. I’m sorry Sherlock, I broke your promise.”

“Your brother stopped by to visit. You know I was hardly even aware you had a brother. I just thought he was another media goon, and answering the door in my pajamas seemed like a reason to smoke if ever I had one. I could just envision the headlines, devastation, drama, so much useless shit. I may have cussed him out immediately after seeing him, and tried to get him to go away, but once he explained the connection between the two of you and his profession I apologized and invited him in.”

“You never even thought to mention your brother handles basically everything in england including law enforcement to me?” 

“We sat and chatted, had a few drinks, and he asked me how I was handling things, genuinely. I could tell he wasn’t exactly having a good time of things either. It was the first time someone asked me that question without trying to answer it for me. I told him the truth. He’d see it anyways if he was related to you. He told me he would do his best to draw the attention of the press to him, to try and give me a break given my work was going to become quite difficult very soon and he’d much rather have me stay focused on that and stay at work rather than having me try and dissuade the media. Your brother is much nicer than I expected him to be, given how I’ve heard you talk about him. He stuck around a while longer, just to make sure I was getting along alright, and told me that should I need help, I should seek it out, rather than try handle it myself. That seemed a bit odd, but he left me his phone number just in case.”

“I appreciated his concern, really I did. I told him I was going to your grave in a couple hours, for the first time. _I’ll bear it in mind. Give him my love would you?_ Your brother’s as much as an oddball as you, but he has his ways. It was totally quiet when I got to visit your grave, the most quiet I’ve had in a long while.”

“I’ll give him a call and say thanks later.”  
Sherlock just found the weight on his chest increasing as he continued to skim through the various emails. He had to lean back against the wall to support his shaking legs. He never intended all this.

He could feel tears start to spill down his cheeks as he read each word in quick succession. “I found Lestrade crying at your grave”, “I’ve come home to find Mrs. Hudson high a couple times now. Nothing hard thankfully”. 

“You’re all alone now, aren’t you?” 

That wasn’t from the emails, it wasn’t Sherlock, and it wasn’t a text from someone. It was him again. Always him. Always there. “It’s all your fault.” He gasped, not so much in shock, but in a vain attempt to keep from making his voice sound quite as heavy as he felt.

“Of course it is. Always my fault. I just wanted to watch you dance.” Always him, in the back of Sherlock’s mind, he always comes back just in time to make everything worse. “And you-.”

“Yes.” Sherlock cut him off, trying to concentrate on what he had intended before. Perhaps he could manage it this time, don’t let Moriarty touch him. He'd be safe so long as Moriarty never laid a finger on him. “Your question. Before you distract me again with your riddles and games and sideways glances. Yes I did miss you. Life is so boring without the need to chase you about. I need you, I need you with me because you're the perfect distraction. Now wont you tell me why you're doing this?"

Yet another silence, only broken by Sherlock's sniffling. He looked around. Moriarty was no where to be seen. He seemed to be alone in fact. Totally alone. Not even Moriarty to offer him comfort. For the first time he could remember, he was totally alone, and rather than embracing the silence, he begged for someone to come and interrupt. Begged for something. "Come back James. Please come back. We have to talk." The words didn't escape his mouth but echoed in the expanses of his brain. "Please James, _I don't want to be alone._


End file.
